Bethany
I don’t rage.
Rage is for wolves who don’t understand leverage.
I move carefully, the way you do when you’re walking a blade edge you helped sharpen. Every step measured. Every breath controlled. If anyone were watching closely enough, they would see nothing but calm competence, Luna material, they’d say. A stabilizing presence. Someone who understands the pack as it is, not as it wishes to be.
That’s the story I let them tell.
The moment I leave Aaron’s office, I let my shoulders loosen just enough to sell compliance. My scent stays even, respectful. No challenge. No push. The faintest echo of submission, precisely calibrated. He turns his back thinking the matter is closed.
It isn’t.
It never is.
The hallway hums with pack routine, boots on concrete, low conversation, the
